The God and the Film Star
by InSilva
Summary: A one-shot of Danny and Rusty in Venice – waaay before O11. Rated for one profanity and not too explicit sexual description. Danny/Rusty. If you so choose.


The God and the Film Star by InSilva

Summary: Danny and Rusty in Venice – waaay before O11. Rated for one profanity and (not too explicit) sexual description.

Pairing: Danny/Rusty. If you so choose.

Disclaimer: Just borrowed Danny and Rusty. And I'm very reluctant to hand them back – do I have to?

The Locanda Rossi is a pretty, little one-star hotel tucked away down a Venetian side street and those who visit call it "charming" and "rustic". The front is decorated with honeysuckle and bougainvillea and it is maintained by a handful of staff who have learned the definition of the word "multitask".

Alessia is polishing the tables in the bar when she hears the men arrive. They stand talking in low voices as they wait for Signor Rossi. _Americani, _she decides, here for _carnevale_. Venice is packed.

There is a music to their voices, a gentle rhythm bouncing between them and because she is young and she is curious, she gives the last table a cursory wipe and heads out to the foyer.

Signor Rossi has arrived and is booking the men in to room 9. She pretends to dust the bookcase and looks at the new arrivals under her lashes. One is blond and golden with the face of a god. _Apollo,_ she thinks. The other is dark and handsome like the matinée idols her mother adores. They are possibly the most beautiful men she has ever seen.

The duster idle in her hand, Alessia watches them as they take the key to the room and their bags and climb the staircase, still talking softly, their heads bent together, gold and dark.

"Alessia," Signor Rossi scolds and she busies herself with the bookcase once more.

* * *

At home that night, she tells her older sister, Maria, about the men.

"They will be gay," Maria pronounces and Alessia looks at her, shocked. Maria shrugs. "If they are that good-looking with no women in tow and they are sharing a room…"

Alessia shakes her head. Perhaps she has not explained herself.

"They are beautiful, Maria, like an artist has drawn them. They are together certainly but how can you say they are together?"

A knowing smile lights up Maria's face. At twenty-two, she is five years older than Alessia and she thinks those five years count for a lot.

"Did they seem to have their own little world? Were they looking intently at each other?"

Alessia nods.

"Eye-fucking," Maria says triumphantly and Alessia claps her hand to her mouth at the profanity. Maria ignores her. "They are into each other, trust me."

* * *

Alessia cannot stop thinking about what Maria has said. Nervously, she approaches their table at breakfast time, certain she is about to drop something and promptly does so. The god reaches out and plucks the glass from the air as easily as an apple from a tree. He hands it back to her with a smile.

"Scusa, signor," she blushes and with a shaky hand puts the jug of orange juice and the glasses on the table. The film star looks amused but neither one of them says a thing until she scurries away.

She watches them covertly as she serves the other guests. They are engaged in light exchanges, and first one and then the other will say something that makes the listener react. Their faces are never still, she realises, even when they are silent. They are always animated, most of all when they are looking at each other. She thinks Maria may have a point.

* * *

She does not mean to pry. She is cleaning room 8 and the windows are open. The wind blows in the scent of the honeysuckle and the words of the Americani next door.

They are still speaking in muted tones and far too quickly for her to decipher but she hears three words she knows: "Accademia" and "princess" refer of course to the Gallerie dell'Accademia which houses "La Principessa, San Georgio e San Luigi", Alessia's favourite painting. Her father used to take her to see it every week after mass and would tell her the story of Saint George and the dragon and would end it by saying the woman in the painting was not half as pretty as his own little princess. They are planning to see some sights, she realises and smiles. They are wrong, though; the painter, Tintoretto, is definitely Venetian not Roman.

As she leaves the room, she bumps into the god in the hallway and loses her balance. His hand shoots out to catch her as easily as he caught the glass.

"Mi dispiace-" she begins but the god interrupts in Italian.

"It was my fault entirely."

Her eyes open wide at his accent, light and native. He shakes his head at the question she has not asked and says, "I only speak a little."

The film star appears behind him and she realises she is still in the arms of the god. She disentangles herself hurriedly, vaguely aware that both men are now smiling.

As she disappears down the corridor, she hears them walking down the stairs. She risks a glance and sees them, deep in conversation, the film star's hand on the small of the god's back.

* * *

Sunday is her own and after mass, she wanders through the streets which are thronged with tourists and those in elaborate costume. The atmosphere in the city is building towards the Tuesday night finale. Maria is no longer bothered with _carnevale_ but Alessia still enjoys the transformation of the city, the colour, the distraction, the noise.

She sees the men twice. Once, they are sauntering towards the south bank of the Grand Canal, home to the Accademia. Alessia knows they will be out of luck. Sunday, the gallery is shut.

The second time is much later. She has listened to the steel band and she has eaten more _gelati_ than she should. She is wandering through St Mark's when she spots them. They are sitting at a café table. The film star has a cup of espresso in his hand and there is a cup of something frothy – probably _cioccolata_ – in front of the god. As always, they are engaged in a conversation that Alessia knows by now excludes the rest of the world.

The god leans forward and takes a sip of his drink leaving froth around his mouth. The film star leans forward too, laughing and Alessia also hides a smile; the god looks faintly ridiculous. Taking a napkin, the god cleans most of it away but a smudge remains and the film star reaches over and wipes it away with his finger. It is a small but intimate gesture and Alessia cannot explain the sudden heat that rushes through her.

* * *

That night, Alessia dreams of the god and the film star.

Fingers are wrapped in golden hair, worshipping kisses descending on flawless golden skin…slick bodies writhe on the sheets, gleaming limbs entwined, coated in fevered silence punctuated by little noises of pleasure neither can control…demanding mouths searching, meeting, satiating themselves…hands are stroking and stoking flesh…a tongue is at work, flicking and licking and dark eyes close in ecstasy…

Alessia wakes with a start, her heart pounding, a sheen of sweat covering her. In the next bed, Maria snores gently and Alessia lies back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling, seeing images that are still in sharp focus.

She does not sleep again that night.

* * *

Monday, the Americani are nowhere to be seen. There is a _non disturbare_ sign on their door.

_

* * *

_

_Carnevale _comes to a head on Tuesday night and the crowds start to build from late afternoon. Alessia has not seen the god and the film star for two days but as she moves through the streets towards St Mark's she sees them, heading against the crowd, heading down a side street towards the Ponte dell'Accademia. Surely, she thinks, they cannot believe the gallery will be open now.

* * *

Wednesday, the morning of Mardi Gras, Venice has a hangover. Alessia, who has not indulged, arrives at the Locanda Rossi early enough to see the Americani, cases at their feet, ready to depart.

She remembers her dream and feels the colour rising in her. The god sees her and smiles an acknowledgement. The film star is stood facing the god, hands in pockets, and turns to nod at her as well.

Signor Rossi is drawing up their bill. They hand over notes and disappear down the steps of the hotel. Alessia will never see them again.

* * *

After mass on Sunday, Alessia finds herself near the Accademia and thinks it a shame that the god and the film star missed seeing "La Principessa". On a whim, she goes in and walks to the second floor landing where the picture is displayed.

There are a couple of people in front of it and she joins them, looking up at the study in oils of the lady in her red dress on top of the dragon. Alessia frowns. There is something in the brushstrokes…. Timidly, she approaches the curator and asks if the painting has been cleaned or…he looks at her with indolent superciliousness and shakes his head.

Doubtfully, she returns to the painting and decides she must be wrong. There is no way she can be right, after all.

A/N: The painting exists and is on show at the Accademia. I have taken some liberties with their opening times should you be planning a trip to Venice. Oh, and if you are, there was indeed a lovely hotel called the Locanda Rossi that I stayed in when I went back-packing but we're talking some considerable while ago. :-)


End file.
